Alcohol
by Gumnut
Summary: A great chemical for removing inhibitions. Spoilers for season 7. Complete.


Alcohol  
By Numnut  
10 Mar 2004/21 Nov 2005

Alcohol.

It's a great chemical for removing inhibitions. It lets you do what you want regardless of the consequences. In fact, it muddles your brain so badly you are no longer even aware of the consequences. You can do things you would never dream of sober, like whistling dixie on one leg in the middle of a fountain at the local park. Okay, so he'd done it on a dare, but that didn't negate the fact he'd spent the night in the local lockup. His associates of the time were suddenly conspicuous in their absence.

Which leads onto the secondary effect of alcohol – regret.

And boy, did he have a lot of that.

xoxoxoxoxo

Pain.

Loss.

Memory.

The beer fizzled against his lips as he took a swig, letting the cool liquid roll around his tongue, tiny bubbles popping against his gums. Its bitterness was appropriate. He felt bitter. Bitter at the callousness of fate. Bitter at the uselessness of it all.

It always came as a shock. A lightning bolt out of the blue. No matter how many times it had happened before. And each time, a tiny part of him burned and smouldered away leaving him empty.

Janet.

God, Janet.

Why Janet?

Large dark eyes staring out of a face intent on saving his life. He would always remember her voice. He swore it was all he looked for when he awoke in the infirmary. Her sharp reassuring tones telling him his team was fine and he was fine and the world had been saved again. A small thing in the big scheme, but something he considered important.

The room had grown dark, but he couldn't be bothered turning on the lights. So he let the night close in around him like a blanket, his familiar furnishings disappearing into shadow, his only company the bottle of beer in his hand.

Time passed.

His bottle emptied.

He opened another one.

And another one.  
And several other varieties of intoxicant in a vain attempt to drown in his own misery.

Damnit, why her?

For a moment the injustice swelled up inside him and before he knew it a bottle was airborne, a spray of beer spurting around the room. The smash of glass as it hit the mantlepiece above the fireplace echoed the length of the house and bounced back and forth inside his skull like an alarm waking him to his own nightmare.

She was gone and there was nothing he could do about it.

He didn't hear the car, but he did hear the doorbell, a simple ding-dong heralding an invasion of his privacy. He didn't want company he just wanted to be alone to stew in his grief.

But the doorbell was persistent, ringing repeatedly, demanding his attention.

Oh, for crying out loud…

He stood, and found that planet Earth was not as stable as it was the last time he had stood up. He fell sideways, the crash of falling glass battering his ears as he collided with the coffee table and its horde of empty bottles. Ah, shit. A half empty bottle of scotch attempted to drain its contents on his lounge room rug, a hasty grab its only saviour.

He found himself on his side on the floor, struggling to regain his feet with little success; the world would just not stay still long enough.

A pair of hands wrapped around his shoulders.

He jumped, reacted, scuttled away from a possible foe, crouched, even in his drunkenness, ready to fight. His head came up.

And he looked straight into the worried eyes of Samantha Carter.

xoxoxoxoxo

She knew he had been released, knew he had fled the mountain as soon as he possibly could, and she'd had to hold herself back from following him.

They had to talk.

Well, she had to talk.

It was all too much.

The fear of one death, and the certainty of another. To see him standing there, whole, in one piece, a sight she had thought she may never see again, only to grieve for another, a friend just as close, just as important, but not as lucky.

She often wondered how fate decided whom it would take. Which soul, and which heart it would break. It had taunted her with the Colonel's death, oh, so many times, yet he had survived. Janet, never injured, rarely ill, suddenly taken, no heroic last words, no magical second chance. No chance at all.

She blinked away tears.

The Colonel was safe, Janet was not.

And she had to talk with him.

She remembered his cold façade after Daniel's death. She had been puzzled, hurt, infuriated. And, later she realised, blind.

She should have known. She still kicked herself over the things she had said, the hurt she had caused, locked in her own mourning and not understanding the grief of her teammates. Teal'c. Gentle Teal'c had shown her. A simple phrase, the glisten in his eye, the sudden realisation that she had nearly brought her friend to tears through her inability to handle her own grief.

And handle it was all they could do.

Jack O'Neill was very experienced in handling. So experienced she had brushed him off as uncaring, his expressions, his actions, his dismissal. She hadn't realised that this was how he coped, how he survived. He bottled it up and shut it away in order to simply function on an everyday level.

She had spoken with Daniel late one night when both of them had gotten mellow over a coffee break. They had babbled on about lost loved ones, both having lost more than their fair share, and Daniel more than most. The subject of the Colonel had inevitably come up, and through careful questioning she had gained a picture of the Jack O'Neill Daniel had first met. That Jack hadn't coped, hadn't handled it, and it had almost led to his death.

She understood now.

But she still had to talk.

For her own sake, if not for his.

xoxoxoxoxo

She'd managed to hold off following him for the rest of the day, even managed to go home, only to pace the floor thinking, driving herself out of her mind.

Ironically, it would have been Janet she would have called first

Hah.

The thought had only brought more tears to her eyes. Her head throbbed.

She needed to talk.

To him.

So she ended up on his doorstep.

Still she hesitated before pressing the doorbell, unsure as to why it was he she had to talk to, not Daniel or Teal'c. Both would be equally supportive, understanding. But the Colonel, she had to speak to the Colonel, and tonight.

There were no lights on in the house, but his truck was in the drive, so he had to be here.

She pressed the button.

Waited.

No response.

Pressed it again.

Again, no response.

If she had been less desperate, she might have walked away. God, the man may be sleeping. But she was desperate and she did need to speak with him.

So she rang.

Rang.

And rang.

And began to worry.

What if something was wrong? What if this, what if that? Her imagination, usually grounded in solid, logical physics and mathematics, was still fully capable of flights of fantasy involving every variety of horrible situation that might be occurring behind the Colonel's front door.

There was a crash.

The sound of breaking glass.

A curse.

Silence.

Damnit!

She had his spare key out and was through the door without a second thought.

He was on the floor.

Struggling, fumbling in a pile of glass.

"Colonel?"

He didn't seem to hear her. He was mumbling, cursing under his breath. The harsh scent of alcohol floated like a miasma through the room. She had no doubt about the cause of his apparent inability to sit up, much less stand.

Worried he may be hurt, she reached down and attempted to support him as he tried again to right himself.

His reaction to her touch was immediate.

He flung himself away from her, all signs of inebriation suddenly gone, a cold ice slid over his features, his body ready, quivering with tension.

He looked up.

And she stared into a pair of bloodshot eyes, full of pain, but lethal nonetheless.

xoxoxoxoxo

"What are you doing here?" His voice slurred and stuttered as if his tongue couldn't quite place itself correctly to form the words.

"I came to see how you were."

He snorted, his derision of her claim obvious. "Liar." He attempted to stumble to his feet with varied success. "You came here to talk." This time he did manage to stand, though a little lopsidedly, and jabbed a finger in her direction. "You wanted to talk, to bring it all out in the open."

She blinked, taken aback by his unusual aggressiveness.

When she didn't reply, he pressed the matter. "Go on, Major Carter, admit it. You came here to talk it all out with good ol'Colonel Jack." He looked her up and down. "And now you're wishing you'd stayed home."

She didn't answer immediately, not willing to admit to shock, not willing to confirm what he said, and that hesitation did exactly that.

He glared and waved a dismissive hand in her direction before stumbling back to the couch and dropping into it.

"Go home, Carter. You don't want to be here."

Something in that put steel into her spine. She dropped her handbag onto a side table and said quietly, not a little defiantly, "You may be my commanding officer, Colonel, but you can't tell me what I want."

His head shot up, his eyes a little wide, his glare toxic. "But I can tell you what to do. Go home."

"No, sir."

He glared at her, the look in his eyes pure venom, but before he could say anything further she rounded on him, her voice sharp. "I don't believe you are in any fit state to give orders, sir."

His eyes flashed, anger flaring. "Get out."

"No, sir."

"I said 'Leave'!" He fossicked amongst the shattered remains of his coffee table, managing to find a bottle that still contained some liquid content, and guzzling half of it, settled back on the couch, his eyes on everything but her, as if he ignored her enough, she would simply go away.

Fat chance.

She took a seat herself, leaning back into the lounge chair, her eyes on him. There was silence except for the sloshing of liquid, and the blood in her ears.

He ran out of drink and went looking for more, his fingers combing through broken glass.

She reached out and turned on a lamp.

A whistle of air past her ear and the sharp crack of smashing glass against the wall behind her. Hot pain as something cut into her cheek.

She couldn't help it, she yelped, flinching, and threw herself to the floor, the world blurring with movement as she rolled. The lamp remained on, illuminating the room in shades of sour yellow, and as she landed on her back, the shadows sketched out his face above her, close, dark eyes shining.

Something warm and moist ran down her cheek.

"I told you to leave." His voice was rough, anger mixed with alcohol. "Why are you still here?" His breath was hot on her face.

She kicked him.

Threw him off her, sending him flying backwards into the couch, and rolled to her feet.

Good question. She touched fingers to her cheek and they came back red. Several answers came to mind, none of which she felt like voicing. So she simply watched him struggle to stand, her face impassive, her stance ready.

He stumbled several times, his balance obviously off, but she didn't move to help him. She cared, but she wasn't stupid. Finally he gave up and settled back amongst the remains of the coffee table, glaring at her and saying about as much as she.

The silence grew.

"Fuck you, Carter." And he looked away.

She almost missed it, it was said so quietly. Her eyes narrowed. "Not in your condition, I would think."

He flinched and she had the distinct impression that he was holding himself back. His eyes flickered up at her, a mixture of fury, hurt and simple pain shot in her direction.

She took a step back.

"What do you want?"

What did she want? And why the hell was she still here? He was going to hate her for this. A breach of his privacy. She was well aware she was seeing something she shouldn't. Something he wanted to hide. She was in his territory and he was defending it…violently if necessary.

But she couldn't leave him like this, could she?

Part of her could. Part of her was as angry as he. Hurt and disillusioned. The man she followed had fallen apart. He'd let her down. He wasn't as strong as he seemed. It was childish, selfish and downright wrong. But she felt it.

And perhaps understood him a little better for it.

But he was more than simply her commanding officer.

He was human.

No matter what illusion he liked to weave.

What did she want?

She had wanted to talk to him.

And here he was.

"Disappointed?"

The question snapped her out of her thoughts and she realised he was still glaring up at her. She wasn't quick enough to answer and he dismissed her with a snort of disgust, reaching for the couch and again attempting to lever himself up, apparently deciding to ignore her presence all together. This time he was a little more successful, getting his feet under him and, wobbling slightly, he stumbled past her towards the kitchen, barely managing to keep his upright position on the three-stair flight between levels. He made it to the refrigerator and dug some more beer out of its depths.

The snap of bottlecap seal the only sound breaking the returning silence.

Apparently the voyage back to the lounge was too much to consider because he took up a seat in the kitchen, his posture completely dejected.

She stood there a moment, unsure what to do next. She should leave.

But she should stay.

She settled for picking up pieces of glass off the living room floor. She ventured briefly into the kitchen to grab a garbage bag and some newspaper, but he didn't react, didn't even acknowledge her presence. So she ignored him as well.

She wasn't his maid, and no way did she feel any indenture to clean up after him. Far from it, in fact. However, if he was going to be stupid enough to be as irresponsible as he was, she would rather he did it without a trip to emergency, regardless of whose embarrassment would be involved.

Of course, that thought was derailed when she realised the slick substance her finger landed in wasn't alcohol based.

An instinctive, habitual reaction. "Colonel?"

No answer.

She stood up from where she had been crouching, piece of glass still in her hand, the touch of blood on its edge glimmering in the poor light. "Colonel?"

No answer.

She peered over the counter into the kitchen and found him sitting staring at nothing in particular, still hunched over his bottle, eyes distant.

A sigh, and she put down the bag with its clinking glass shards and made her way around to the entrance of the kitchen, fingering her own injury absently, touch stinging her cheek.

He didn't look up as she entered. Her eyes raked over him, searching for the source of the blood, but coming up with nothing from this distance…and in the dark. So she turned on the light.

His reaction was immediate.

"Can't you leave me the fuck alone!" Half out of his seat, fury and a little desperation on his face.

"No, I can't!" She entered the room, her own anger getting the better of her. "It seems that you don't do too well on your own, Colonel." She snarled his rank.

"I'm fine!"

"That's just it, isn't it, Colonel. You're fine! Nothing touches the Colonel. Nothing hurts him. Strong as steel is the Colonel. People die and the Colonel doesn't even flinch! That's it, isn't it! Go home, go hide. The world can't know that the Colonel is in pain. And god forbid anyone else show it!"

Eyes wide, furious. "What the fuck do you know!"

"She was my friend too. You're not the only one in pain!" She was not going to cry. Damnit, not going to cry.

The look on his face was of a man cornered, caught between what he should be doing and what he was.

And the anger.

"What the hell do you want from me!" It was almost a plea.

"I don't want anything!" It was a lie.

And they both knew it.

He kicked the chair out behind him, the sudden clatter startling her, and unsteadily made his way to the door, attempting to brush past her.

Only she wasn't prepared to let him go.

"Colonel."

"Leave it, Carter." It was a warning.

"No, sir."

He rounded on her, his face inches away, the stench of alcohol and sweat rank in her nostrils. For a moment she thought he might hit her…but he didn't. "Leave. Me. Alone!"

Pure frustration, anger, a little fear, and she broke, slamming him up against his own refrigerator, her fingers caught up in his shirt. "Goddamnit, sir. You will listen to me!"

The expression on his face was one of stunned shock, and she was honest enough with herself to admit to some satisfaction at that. But his next words disarmed her.

"What do you want to say?" Calm, levelheaded, she could almost believe he was sober.

The bastard.

She held him a moment longer as a sick smile spread on his face and he slowly dissolved into a parody of laughter. Disgusted, she let him go and he slid down the fridge to the floor, still giggling brokenly, his head falling into his hands.

She backed up and mirrored him somewhat, sliding down the hallway wall, simply sitting there and watching him have his little fit. After a while he stopped shaking with the evil twin of glee and slid to one side, finally looking up at her, his eyes hollow, a red fingerprint staining his brow. "Like what you see?"

She didn't have an answer, so she said the obvious. "We're all hurting, sir." Had he done this when Daniel died?

"She's dead. People die. Life goes on." The words were familiar, said by rote, and he said them as if they were his only lifeline, the only thing he could hold on too.

"But you don't have to live it alone."

His expression stabbed and pinned her to the wall.

xoxoxoxoxo

The light blurred and scattered as he stared. Turned amber by simple refraction through the remnants of whisky from the night before left on his nightstand, it blurred and as his sleep hampered eyes tried to focus.

He was warm, he was comfortable, he'd been drinking.

Why had he been drinking?

His brain searched for the reason and slammed hard into cold, stark reality, comfort splintering into a thousand sharp and hurting shards as he remembered. No. God, no.

No.

But no matter how many times he said it, it didn't make it any less true or any less painful. At each realisation it was as painfilled as the first. At each remembrance, the stab at his heart. Sure he'd lost friends before. Far too many friends. And each hurt a great deal, each cut, each bled. But there was simply something about her death that broke the boundaries.

She shouldn't be dead. It shouldn't have happened.

People die, O'Neill.

But not her!

Her smile. Her laughter. Her care. Simple reassurance that no matter what happened, she would be there trying her best to fix whatever had gone wrong.

She would be there.

And now she wasn't.

The light blurred again and this time he blinked away tears.

He should get out of bed and start the day. The sun was obviously up and despite the fact Hammond had given them all the day off, actually a good part of the week barring the planet falling to some extraterrestrial catastrophe in the meantime, and despite O'Neill's determined declaration on many an occasion that his favourite past time was sitting on a pier fishing for non-existent fish, the truth was that Jack rarely sat still for long. He wouldn't be a Colonel in the US Air Force if he had.

He really should get out of bed. Get over it. It was what he did. Lose them, mourn them, move on.

He stared at the light.

It was sunlight. Sunlight cast through his bedroom window. It should be hurting his eyes, poking at the headache behind them, but for some reason it was simply there.

Amber liquid.

He shifted slightly and the bed knocked the nightstand causing the drink to jiggle in the glass, which in turn caused the light to dance.

Amber liquid.

He sighed and rolled over.

And came face to face with a sleeping Samantha Carter.

xoxoxoxoxoxo   
FIN.


End file.
